No Johnlock one-shot
by SundayDutchess
Summary: John says no to Sherlock. Mature!


"Sherlock? Could you put the kettle on?" John called. He entered the living room, spotting Sherlock sprawled out on the couch, his hands folded under his chin, thinking. Sherlock was dressed, thank god, for he could sometimes not dress properly for days on hand, wearing his bathrobe all day. But now he had bothered to put on a suit, his favourite suit. It was neat, and John liked it all too much. Well, he preferred it over the bathrobe any time. He himself, was carrying a basket with laundry, mainly Sherlock's. Sherlock seemed to generate a lot of laundry. He probably wore one outfit for about three hours before deciding that it was dirty. And he wasn't very careful when it came to clothing. His experiments mostly went wrong, covering Sherlock in blood, mud, grime, snot, green stuff, blue stuff, poisonous stuff, contagious stuff, and the list goes on and on. One time, it was completely covered in a white, sticky, liquid thing, and John nearly got a heart attack thinking it was semen or something. Upon inspecting it further, he found out that it was mashed pasta. Why, he didn't know. But then, he never did.

"What for?" Sherlock spat, not bothering to open his eyes.

"Because I asked you to." John answered, exasperated.

"Dull."

"Everything is dull to you."

"Not everything, just a lot of things."

John sighed heavily, stepping into the kitchen and putting the kettle on himself. Sherlock's phone rang loudly through the otherwise silent apartment. After it ringing a few moments, John asked Sherlock whether he was going to pick it up or leaving it.

"Hmm. Dunno."

"I'll get it, shall I? Hello, John Watson speaking." John said, as nicely as he could.

"Greg, hi. What's up? No, Sherlock's occupied. Yes, I realize it's important…. Yes, no, Sherlock is obviously too bored for this. Yes, he's thinking. Yeah, I've read about them in the papers. Ah, eight people murdered by the same guy now? See, Sherlock doesn't care about them. He doesn't even care about me or you, so why should he? Yes, I'll tell him you called. Bye Gre-"

"Give that here." Sherlock sneered. "Lestrade? Yes, on my way, I'll be there in about fifteen minutes." He hung up before awaiting an answer.

"Come on, John. Interesting murder."

"No."

That stopped Sherlock dead in his tracks.

"No?" He asked confused. His eyes shot at John, questioning him, interrogating him.

"No." John replied simply. Or so he thought. His voice shook, his lip quivered, his eyes darted for a moment around the room, enough for Sherlock to deduce insecurity. John had said the first 'no' so determined, so strong, but now, he fell. He fell down from his tower of security.

"No?" Sherlock asked again, stepping forward to John, until he reached an uncomfortable distance. John swallowed a little too hard, staring at Sherlock. Not directly into his eyes, like a prey not looking directly in the predators eyes. Sherlock stared dead into John's eyes.

"N-no." John answered.

"No?" Sherlock stepped even closer. His own tone had changed, too. Intentionally. It had gone from confused to questioning, to seductive. John was now incapable of talking, as Sherlock was breathing in his neck. He bent down, and whispered into John's ear.

"No?"

John now shook completely. Sherlock thought he was going to faint for just a moment. But he wasn't. He was a soldier. Killing people didn't faze him. Sherlock, did.

"No?" Sherlock asked him again. He licked John's ear. He bit John's ear, eliciting a moan from John's lips. He kissed John's ear now, kissing it better.

"Sh-Sherlock. Stop. Don't."

"Don't stop? You want me to continue?" Sherlock seduced him. Then Sherlock stepped around John, now facing his back. Sherlock bent over John, his arms weaving their way under John's arms, grasping his hips.

"No." John managed to choke out.

"No again? You deny me things, John. You know what happens to Lestrade when he denies me something. I rob him, and in the end, I get what I wanted anyway. I will rob you, John. I will rob you good." Sherlock hands moved to the middle of John's hips, to his growing bulge. John willed it in his head to stop. He knew it had no effect whatsoever.

"Oh, John. What is going on in that little, stupid head of yours? Something… very erotic, isn't it?" Sherlock breathed. His ragged, musky scented, hot breath against John's skin sent shivers down his spine.

"God, Sherlock…"

"I'm not a god, John. But that does not stop you from worshipping me, does it?"

John swallowed again. Sherlock grinned like a madman, knowing exactly what he was doing.

"See, John, I think that you want me to do this. You've wanted this all along, haven't you? But see, I am not just the master of deduction. No, no, I am so much more than that. The word I am looking for, oh, what was it again, John? It sounds an awful lot like 'deduction', John. Tell me. What am I aiming for?" Sherlock breathed in his other ear. He lightly kissed the skin behind John's ear.

"Sed-"

"What, John?" Sherlock demanded.

"Seduction." John panted.

"That's right…"

Sherlock curled his hands around John's jumper, then pulled it smoothly over John's head. It was the striped one, and luckily, he never wore shirts under that.

"Oh, John. You. Are. Be-au-ti-ful!" Sherlock mused.

John was red as a tomato, but he didn't move. He was a soldier, and he could handle war. He could handle Sherlock, too. So he made his statement by not moving. No, he wasn't going to give in to Sherlock.

Sherlock's hands moved lightly over his skin. Sherlock's mouth followed the trail, the route, his hands had mapped out for him. He kissed John's skin lightly, placing little kissed along the trail. He reached John's scar. He never asked for the story. He imagined what it could tell. Sure, it was a gunshot, obviously, and with a little concentration, Sherlock could make out what gun it was. But he didn't have that concentration.

Sherlock brought his lips to the scar. John shivered violently as Sherlock's lips touched the scar.

"Don't." John ordered.

Sherlock paid no attention to him, and sucked the scar lightly. John moaned a little. Sherlock sucked harder at once. John moaned loudly, like he wanted the whole street to hear it. Sherlock let his hands waltz down John's back, to his buttocks. John tensed.

"Ssht, relax. Why don't you let me do the work for you, huh?" Sherlock whispered. John nodded.

Sherlock squeezed John's buttocks lightly, gently. He let his hands wander around the waistband, to the front. He unfastened the belt with his expertly trained hands. The violin paid off, at last. He knew it was valuable, but this, he hadn't imagined.

He unbuttoned the button locking John's private parts, and unzipped the zipper agonizingly slowly. He wanted John to feel his touch, relish in it, and surrender. Submit to him.

Sherlock dropped to his knees, still behind John. He folder his hands around the trousers around where the knees were supposed to be, and yanked it down.

John winced. Sherlock had forgotten that the trousers were folder around John's buttock and John's front. Yanking it down had caused friction.

"Sorry, John." Sherlock kissed the back of his leg as an apology. His hands moved from John's feet up. John's legs were, surprisingly, less hairier than he thought. Then again, he had made that discovery a few months ago when he had spied on John while he was in the shower. And when he says spied…

Sherlock reached John's bright red briefs.

"Ready?"

"No."

"Good."

Sherlock carefully removed John's underpants, careful for John's dick, as he had hurt it only moments ago.

When John was exposed, in full glory, Sherlock touched it gently, with his hands. John winced. Only now, Sherlock moved back around to John's front. He sat on his knees, staring up at John. John stared down at him, not able to show any emotion. But in his eyes, Sherlock saw anticipation, angst, fear, and lust. Sherlock grinned smugly.

He moved his hands up and down John's shaft. John closed his eyes. Sherlock moved his hands to John's buttocks and squeezed John gently. Then he closed his mouth around John's cock. He sucked it gently, then he moved forward, taking John in entirely. His nails dug into John's skin, sending only more shivers through John.

"Fuck me, John. Hard." Sherlock ordered, muffled by the item in his mouth. John didn't need more confirmation. He thrust into Sherlock's mouth, hard and uncontrolled. He pounded against the back of Sherlock's throat, Sherlock tongue trying hard to keep up and enhance the sensations for John. John tasted salty and musky, together the perfect taste. Maybe he could have this for breakfast every day…

John moaned and grunted at Sherlock, then he warned Sherlock that he was close. Sherlock rolled his eyes and dug his nails deeper into John's skin, and he grazed his teeth over the sensitive skin. He sucked it hard one last time before John exploded in his mouth.

"Fuck, Sherlock."

"Yes, I do believe that it the correct word for this." Sherlock said, after swallowing John's load completely, wiping the corners of his mouth. Sherlock stood up, rubbing his knees.

"Feel like you've been scrubbing the floors, huh?" John grinned.

"Yes, now I feel like Donovan." He stood up straight and John kissed him. For the first time, he realized. He kissed back. It was a sweet, soft kiss, no passion. Of course, John had released his passion into him moments ago.

"Now, are you coming with me to Lestrade?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course." John answered simply.

"See, I robbed you, and I got what I wanted."

"What did you take from me, then?" John raised his eyebrows.

"Your innocence. And your I'm-not-gay-statement, it is invalid now."

John opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn't find words. Then he relaxed.

"Come on, then. You've kept Lestrade waiting long enough." John turned around and put on his coat. Sherlock smiled, knowing he had won once again, and led the way to the crime scene.


End file.
